


This Talking About Love

by EnduringParadox



Series: Diarmute Modern AU Adventures [2]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkwardness, Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Frottage, Humor, Lingerie, M/M, Sappy, Sexting, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:48:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24426778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringParadox/pseuds/EnduringParadox
Summary: Modern AU. Diarmuid suggests that he and David try sending each other naughty texts for fun throughout the day. As per usual, David is uncertain but willing to give anything a try for Diarmuid. First it goes well, then it goes really well, and then David accidentally sends a naked photo and an explicit text to his boyfriend's father.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Series: Diarmute Modern AU Adventures [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1763965
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	This Talking About Love

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing remotely historical about this one, just a silly idea about David accidentally sending Ciaran a sext meant for Diarmuid gone way beyond its initial concept.
> 
> A continuation of Laundry Day but can be read as a standalone!

David balked. Diarmuid was often suggesting new things and they were by and large enjoyable, from the Korean buffet a few blocks over whose owners now knew them by sight, to watching cheesy horror movies that were, David’s opinion, utterly stupid but which always left Diarmuid clinging tightly to him like a limpet, to that fancy lotion he’d bought that smelled that like lavender and heated the—well, the _places_ —you applied it to.

But this, this was something he had to decline.

“I can’t do phone sex,” he said, face heating up. His regular sex talk in the bedroom was fairly limited, being mainly centered around how good Diarmuid felt and how badly he wanted him and moaning loudly when he got close—but Diarmuid hadn’t complained thus far. However, the idea of narrating what he was doing, or what he wanted to do, alone in their apartment when his lover was miles away—and with his verbal skills, at that—felt more embarrassing and lonely than appealing.

Diarmuid shook his head. “No, not phone sex. Just, like, sexting.”

“Sexting?”

“Like, naughty texts. Just typing messages to each other throughout the day, but, you know, um. Sexier.”

“Sexier,” David repeated.

“Maybe with photos? That might be easier?” Diarmuid’s hopeful expression turned crestfallen when David said nothing. “Um, if you’re uncomfortable with it we don’t have to. I just thought, you know, it might be fun to try out.”

He sighed in frustration. It was a better idea than talking over the phone, but… “It’s not that, I—I’m not _good_ with—not with words, like that. Any of it. Don’t want to disappoint you.”

Diarmuid’s eyes widened. He grabbed David’s hands in his. “You could _never_ disappoint me. I love everything you do. If you really don’t want to I’ll drop it right now, but if it’s because you’re worried about your—performance—“ David winced. “I’m not grading you or anything. It’s just fun. Some excitement throughout the work day.”

His words were reassuring. And the idea of flirty, sexy messages from Diarmuid waiting for him when he went on his lunch break _was_ extremely tempting. “We’ll give it a try,” he acquiesced.

He received a delighted, firm kiss on the cheek as Diarmuid happily explained to him what he had in mind.

David’s phone was five years old and he still hadn’t quite figured out how to use it. He’d collected dozens of contacts in that time period. To make his life easier he accepted any and all offers of exchanging numbers from coworkers and acquaintances and simply never called. There were also miscellaneous businesses that David had added to his phone from various collected cards and brochures because he had a vague, irrational notion that he might one day need the use of a lawn care specialist or a small claims lawyer and wanted to be prepared for that mysterious but impending date.

The contact list had been updated recently to include not only _Diarmuid_ , but also _Diarmuid’s Boss 1_ (at the university), _Diarmuid’s Boss 2_ (the woman who ran the restaurant Diarmuid waited at when the semesters were over), _Library_ (where Diarmuid tutored also when the semesters were over) and _Diarmuid’s Dad_ , who David had been steadfastly and successfully avoiding since their disastrous first meeting but who was Diarmuid’s other emergency contact, so there he was.

Diarmuid showed him the process that he had planned for initiating what he termed a “sexting session.”

“You can make a heart like this—see? So, um, I was thinking if either of us decides to send something _risqué_ first we send a line of four or five hearts. So that way the other knows to avoid checking the rest of the messages if we’re at work or something.”

“Alright,” David said. In theory the entire thing seemed fairly easy. Just find some free time, pull out his phone, send the little hearts, and tell Diarmuid something like—that he couldn’t stop thinking about that thing he did with fingers the other night and—David cleared his throat, blushing furiously. The thought of committing his thoughts to proverbial paper felt awkward and somewhat shameful. Diarmuid seemed to understand; he placed a reassuring hand on his arm and gave him a tender smile.

“Why don’t I start first, and then we go from there?” he suggested.

David agreed that was probably the best course of action.

* * *

The texts started out fairly innocent and cute. Diarmuid still sent him the line of hearts, as per their rules, but the messages were sweet and adorable rather than lurid. The first day they tried it out David was in the middle of tearing down old scaffolding, tuning out the chatter of the other men around him, when his phone vibrated. He paused just to make certain it wasn’t an emergency and spied the hearts.

_< 3 <3 <3 <3 <3_

He smiled, just a little, and put the phone back in his pocket. It was still a while until his lunch break and he had the notion that whatever Diarmuid had waiting for him would pleasing but flustering.

His phone continued to buzz intermittently for the next five minutes or so. One of the other workers set down a wheelbarrow full of gravel to joke, “Jesus, David, thought I told you before to leave your vibrator at home, come on, man,” and laughed when David gave him the finger.

At noon he settled down far away from everyone else, in case someone overheard him reading, and opened his text messages.

_I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning because you were holding me so tight. You make me feel so warm and protected._

_You’re so strong but so gentle with me._

_I love it best when we’re facing each other and your hands are on my back._

_I love how rough and calloused they are. ;)_

Face burning, David resolutely went about trying to type a reply. He agonized over the keyboard, starting and stopping and deleting and then starting again. It wasn’t really fair, he thought, that Diarmuid could get his heart pounding with just a smile or a wink, let alone send it into overdrive with loving compliments. In the end he decided to be frank about the topic at hand.

_hate letting u go_

_u fit perfect in my arms_

Then he ate his turkey sandwich, knee bouncing in anticipation, listening to the steady thrum of machinery. When the phone vibrated again he swallowed the rest of his lunch and his anxiety and checked the message.

_David!!! I love you so much! I can’t believe how lucky I am!_

This one was much easier to respond to.

_i love u too_

And then, after a moment’s pause, David added, _< 3_

They continued exchanging messages like that for about a week before Diarmuid decided to ramp it up.

Back at their apartment David was busy putting together garlic herb mushroom pasta, scrutinizing Diarmuid’s handwriting on the recipe card and following the directions as seriously and strictly as a military order from the commanding officer. The mushrooms were thinly sliced, the pasta boiling in the pot until they were just al dente, and he was getting ready to butter the skillet and sauté the garlic and mushrooms. The herbs, broth, and cream sat on the counter, ready and waiting for when it was their turn to be added to the mixture.

 _Brzzzt! Brzzzt!_ His phone vibrated, the movement sending it skittering across the table. David set the spatula down and checked it. A familiar line of hearts greeted him. He thought for a moment and then set the phone back down. He waited for the pasta to finish boiling, drained it, set it aside, and returned to the phone. Sometimes Diarmuid’s texts got quite long. It was best to find a stopping point in cooking before turning his attention to them. Who knew how long he’d be there.

_I miss you so much today! I keep thinking about you. ;)_

David smiled.

The following texts read, _All I’ve wanted all day is to have you inside me. I can’t get comfortable._

_I don’t know how, though. I just want you in me, filling me up. But I like thinking about you fucking me on all fours._

Holy shit. David’s mouth went dry. He stood there, holding his phone, frantically thinking of a way to respond, which was difficult when all the blood in his brain was going straight to his dick.

 _whatever u want_ , he responded, _however u want._

_My choice? ;)_

_whatever u want. i just want to make u feel good_

_I’ll be home in half an hour ;)_

David finished making dinner. He followed the instructions to the letter, and like all of Diarmuid’s recipe it turned out delicious looking. He didn’t eat a single bite of it. It sat in the middle of the table in a big serving dish, covered with a paper towel to keep it warm in case Diarmuid wanted a quick bite to eat before David railed him into next week. His eyes barely left the clock.

When door opened David scrambled toward it. Diarmuid stood there, staring up at him, his laptop bag slung around his shoulder and his books in his arms. There was a pleased, if apprehensive expression on his face.

“Do you—still want to—uh—“

“Fuck you?” David asked. Diarmuid blushed. “Yeah.”

Diarmuid nodded and fidgeted with the strap of his laptop case. “I wasn’t sure if that was too much, what I sent you. I’m glad you liked it. Oh! You made dinner! I didn’t realize—do you want to eat first?”

David watched him shift nervously from foot to foot. “Are you hungry?”

“Not—not really.”

“Then, no.”

“Um, okay.” He blushed and stared at the floor. There was a shyness about him that didn’t match the confidence of his texts. David realized with a small pang of guilt that these sexting conversations were probably all very new to Diarmuid as well, and that he was as anxious about David’s reactions to him as David was about Diarmuid’s. And while his boyfriend was more willing to try out new ideas than David was, he was also occasionally a bit too overzealous in his efforts; sometimes the reality didn’t match up with the expectations, the fantasy.

He cupped Diarmuid’s cheek, his voice low and serious. “Whatever you want. It’s always whatever you want. We can do anything. Or nothing.”

“No, no, I want to! It’s—um, it’s just kind of embarrassing when I think about it too much. When I was talking about you that was easy because I love you and it’s so simple to think about all the compliments I want to give you. But then, this…” He trailed off. “I don’t know. I feel selfish, a bit, and just, silly, I guess, sending all that to you.”

David kissed the top of his head. “I liked it.”

Diarmuid let out an awkward little laugh. “Ha! Um, well, mission accomplished. Now I really get why you were worried when I brought this whole thing up. Ugh! It does take some getting used to!” They hugged, David burying his nose in Diarmuid’s brown curls and Diarmuid snuggling into his chest. When they pulled apart Diarmuid was smiling again.

“Okay, I’m just going to put my stuff away and then you can, ah—“

“Fuck you on all fours,” David supplied, helpfully.

“Right.” He watched as Diarmuid kicked his shoes off, took his laptop out of his bag and connected it to its charger, and then peered curiously at the dish on the kitchen table. “Oh, you made the mushroom pasta! It smells really good, David!”

“We’ll work up an appetite.” He gave Diarmuid a little squeeze and led him off to the bedroom.

* * *

Before he left for work the following week, Diarmuid pressed his packed lunch into his hands and a kiss to his jaw. He fell back on his heels, worrying his lip between his teeth.

“I know we send the hearts, for the sexting sessions, to make sure the coast is clear, but um, when you get them today—“ David’s own heart leapt. “When you get them today, um, make sure it’s more private than usual, please? I kind of have something planned and I don’t want anyone but you to—to see me.”

This was perfectly fine with David. The thought of anyone, however hypothetical, seeing Diarmuid in any kind of especially private context brought forth bitter jealousy and furious protectiveness. He’d guard whatever Diarmuid sent him with his life. David left with another kiss on his lips and wondering what the surprise would be.

Somewhere around noon his phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it, determined to find the most quiet, solitary spot he could find on his lunch break in order to best devote his time to responding to Diarmuid’s texts.

He chanced a walk to the park, figuring even if it was the lunch hour it was still a weekday and overcast besides, so there wouldn’t be too many people there. There were some couples spread out on blankets and a group playing Frisbee—it seemed at every park there had to be a group throwing a Frisbee around—but there was set of park tables that were all blessedly empty and he slid gratefully onto a bench.

He scrolled through his phone. The _< 3 <3 <3 <3 <3_, as expected, then a text. _Doing some shopping ;)_

Diarmuid had sent him two photos. He was in a dressing room, but the most spacious, luxurious looking dressing room David had ever seen in his life. The lighting was soft, the floors and walls paneled with some kind of dark, polished wood. It looked like the entrance was billowy, dark purple curtain that could just be pulled aside and the thought made David both jealous and anxious because—

Because Diarmuid was completely naked in the photos. In both he was posed with his phone in one hand, taking the pictures using the mirror’s reflection, while in the other hand he held a set of lingerie on its hanger, draped loosely over his front. While both were long enough to cover him, the material was still sheer enough to show that he very obviously had nothing on behind them. Poring over the two photos, David spotted his clothes folded neatly on what looked like a Victorian armchair in the corner.

 _Which one do you like better?_ Followed a moment later by the forgotten _;)_

It was not a question David had ever expected to be asked. His life now, in general, is not the life he had expected to live. If someone had told him five or ten years ago that one day he’d be waking up next to a small, kind, soft beauty with brown curls and pretty pink lips and pale skin dotted with freckles—well, actually, it might have made his time in the service much less gloomy. Something to dream for.

He inspected the photos. Diarmuid looked great in anything. He especially looked fantastic in nothing. But he’d also look gorgeous in either set of lingerie.

 _both_ , he offered, foregoing the question mark in hopes of coming off as attractively authoritative.

As expected, his boyfriend saw through the ruse. _No! You get one (1) choice!!! >:(_

It’d been worth a shot. David sighed, gave a furtive look around to make sure no one had snuck up on him in the past minute or so to peer over his shoulder and peep at his naked boyfriend, and thumbed back and forth between the two photos. He didn’t know much about fabric but he could infer from the intricate detail and the— _gauziness_ of them that both lingerie sets were made from lace. David was fairly certain they weren’t even categorized as clothing per se, but as sumptuous obstacles to be admired and promptly torn off before lovemaking could begin.

The first was a black corset with garter belts and stockings. The color, he supposed, was a classic choice, and the image of Diarmuid squirming with delight on their bed while David snapped the garter belt against his thigh and sucked at the skin of his throat was a pleasing one. So, it certainly held potential.

The second one was not as immediately provocative. It was also simpler: a pink robe with equally pink boy shorts. But to David it seemed to have the most promise. It was a pretty, flowing thing, and Diarmuid would look so sweet wearing it. And David liked the idea of pulling loose the tie at the front, unraveling it so it fell open to reveal Diarmuid’s bare skin, his nipples pert and pink from rubbing against the material, ready to be kissed. And then in his mind’s eye came the image of Diarmuid, shoved onto the bed, on his back, arms above his head, the open robe splayed around him like an angel’s wings, his cock hard and straining against the underwear, moaning, his face flushed—

 _2ND ONE_ , David punched into his phone, shifting uncomfortably on the picnic bench. Just to be safe he added _THE ROBE_ as frantically as he could type.

The reply arrived quickly.

_Great choice! See you when you get home from work! ;)_

The rest of his shift was torture.

When the workday was over David cut a path through his coworkers on his way back to his car, sped a bit more than he was used to driving back to the apartment complex, and eschewed the elevator for the stairs, racing up them to his and Diarmuid’s apartment.

He almost broke the door in his rush to get inside, bursting through it with such force it smacked against wall and bounced back.

Diarmuid jumped up from where he sat at the kitchen table, alarmed, but then smiled when he saw it was just his boyfriend and not a crazed madman, though David would admit that currently there was not a lot of difference between the two labels. He was wearing the pink lace robe. It barely fell to his mid-thighs. It was tied at the front with a neat little bow. The pink lace boy short panties were there, too, still visible underneath the robe. Christ. Up close, David could see that the detail was an intricate mix of flowers and butterflies.

He slipped his hands underneath the robe to rest on Diarmuid’s hips, running his fingers on soft, creamy skin and the delicate lace undergarments, peppering kisses onto Diarmuid’s eyelids, his nose, his lips. Diarmuid accepted this for a few moments, then gently disentangled himself from David’s embrace.

David growled.

“I see you’ve worked up an appetite,” Diarmuid said, with a cheeky, knowing expression.

“Diarmuid—“

“You’ve had a long day. You should eat first.”

David frowned. The look on Diarmuid’s face lost some of its previous confidence. “Um, I think you should wait until after dinner? I think that might, um, make everything else we do tonight better?” he suggested, voice both a little tremulous and hopeful.

David’s own expression softened. “I am hungry,” he admitted.

Diarmuid’s eyes lit up. He bustled off to the table, but not before allowing David to press a wet, desperate kiss against his neck.

It was a light, refreshing dinner. Diarmuid chattered happily about his day while they ate. Grilled chicken, seasoned with salt, pepper, garlic, paprika, and chili powder, and a crisp, dark green salad with sliced avocados, halved cherry tomatoes, and a homemade vinaigrette which he was very proud of, beaming with pleasure when David declared it delicious. For dessert they shared a panna cotta topped with strawberry sauce, which was not surprising because Diarmuid had a sweet tooth but held a special fondness for things like mousse, semifreddo, Bavarian cream, and of course, panna cottta.

David watched with rapt attention as Diarmuid paused his story about the lingerie boutique to suck a bit of strawberry sauce off his thumb, licking his lips with his pink little tongue before continuing on.

“I’ve never been there before but it’s been highly recommended so I figured I’d give it a shot and I’m glad I did because they were so nice. One of the women who worked there, Margareta, she said hello to me when I came in and asked if needed any help finding anything today or did I prefer a more private shopping experience? And I told her I needed a little help, please, so we talked about my tastes and what I’d like. It was hard to narrow down, really. I had eight different outfits in the dressing room with me at the start."

If the other six had been anything like the two Diarmuid had sent him photos of, there still wouldn’t be enough material in the lot of them to make what could be legally termed an actual outfit. David was about to say something along those lines when he remembered his issue with the dressing room.

“Those dressing rooms safe?”

Diarmuid looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“The curtain—you just draw it back and forth? No door?” At Diarmuid’s nod, he snapped his fingers and said, “Someone could just waltz right in.”

“Oh, David, it’s just employees and customers looking for pretty things to wear or to give to someone to wear.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You think a man could force his way into the dressing room and have his way with me?” Diarmuid seemed to consider the thought. “Well, if he did do you think he’d have wanted me in the corset or the robe?”

David grumbled. “Cute.”

“Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not. Just saying—next time I’ll go with you.”

Diarmuid grinned. “Oh, okay! I’d really like that! But, um, are you nearly done eating, because—“

David practically sprinted to the bedroom.

Their bedroom was as comforting and familiar as it always was, the bed neatly made, ready to disheveled, and Diarmuid had relit the candles that were strategically placed around the room for instances such as these, giving the room a soft, soothing glow.

As soon as Diarmuid shut the door behind them David was on him again, hands roving and nipping at his neck and shoulder, grinding his hips against Diarmuid’s.

“ _Ah_ —David, wait a second, you’re all sweaty and dusty—“

He paused. It had never been an issue before. In fact, many times previously it had been something of a turn on for Diarmuid. But in this instance Diarmuid once again pushed him back with a gentle, but insistent hand.

David actually let out a whimper.

For a moment Diarmuid looked apologetic, but then he drew himself up and declared, “You’ve been working all day, David.” He gave the bow keeping his robe close a light tug. “I want you to wash up before you ruin me.”

This was it, the final hurdle, the last hoop to jump through. David threw his clothes into the bathroom sink and scrambled into the shower. He pressed his forehead to the wall, groaning. He scrubbed vigorously at his skin with soap and the loofah that Diarmuid had bought him, the sting distracting him from his neglected erection. When he stepped out he toweled down his hair and dried his face before deciding, _fuck it_ , and walking out to Diarmuid naked and dripping.

It was an extraordinarily quick shower and he found his boyfriend still preparing, using his reflection in the full-length mirror across from their bed to test his seductive positions. Flat on his stomach but fidgeting, apparently unsure whether it’d be best to prop himself up on his elbows or not, or to keep his legs in the air or on the bed completely still, pouting with dissatisfaction all the while. It was very Diarmuid.

David chuckled.

Diarmuid’s eyes flew to his, scrabbling up from the sheets, blushing at being caught unawares. The blush deepened as he took in David’s form, his eyes following the path of the water droplets running down in chest, his stomach, and into the thatch of hair between his legs. His gaze stopped there at David’s swollen shaft.

“Um, what—what you want me to do? I can—Ah!” David pulled the ribbon holding his robe together, unfurling it and unwrapping Diarmuid like a present. The robe’s pink color was nothing compared to the shade that currently graced his face. When the robe fell open he saw that Diarmuid was half-hard.

“Stand up for me?” David asked. Diarmuid shifted off the bed and stood, trembling. Nervousness? Or anticipation? He hoped the latter, but just in case David leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss in the corner of Diarmuid’s mouth. And then another to the other corner, grinning when he received a series of giggles in return.

“Alright?”

“Yes, I’m ready.”

“Good.”

He fell to his knees, brushed the robe back, and put his hands on Diarmuid’s hips, admiring the pretty picture of his lover’s member trapped behind the pink lace panties. Then he ran his tongue over as much of it as he possibly could. Long, slow, thorough laves, leaving lines of spit stuck to the fabric. He could taste Diarmuid behind the material, the salt of his sweat and precum. He needed more.

Diarmuid shifted slightly, moaning, trying to find a better angle for David to put his mouth or perhaps hoping to rub his cock free from the damp, tight panties. The thought made David groan in frustration. He held the rocking hips still and gave him a warning bite in the meaty part of his thigh.

Ignoring Diarmuid’s yelp of surprise, he growled, “Been thinking about you in these all day. You’re not taking them off. I want you to come in them.” To emphasize this last statement, he found the head of Diarmuid’s leaking cock and sucked it through the lace.

Diarmuid wailed. “ _Ah!_ David! _David!_ ” His hands flew to David’s head, fingers grabbing, bunching his thick, dark hair. At every lap of his tongue Diarmuid’s breath hitched and he _yanked_ and David had no idea if it was reflexive or a request for more but he kept at it with quick, forceful licks. There wasn’t a spot he didn’t taste, not an inch that he missed; he was determined to memorize the patterns of lace flowers and butterflies on his taste buds.

The tugs on his hair became more insistent. “I’m—I’m gonna—“ Diarmuid’s voice broke as David pushed his head under his thighs and ran his tongue all the way from his balls, tight with tension, back up over his cock in one long stripe. David took a moment to breath, his entire body hot with lust and anticipation. He kissed DIarmuid’s navel.

“Alright,” he rasped, “Alright, baby.” He ran his fingers along the warm, wet panties to gently rub at Diarmuid’s balls and then leaned down once more to earnestly caress his length with his tongue. Diarmuid’s thighs shook. His hips were moving again, rutting against David’s mouth. He panted, his breath coming out in choked gasps. David moaned against him, moving both of his hands to Diarmuid’s ass cheeks, squeezing and pulling him forward to engulf as much of him as he could.

Diarmuid came with a sob. He bent at the waist, one hand in David’s hair and the other on his shoulder, hips stuttering, mewling with every fresh spurt that was drawn from him. David pulled back, watching in fascination and awe as Diarmuid’s cum absolutely soaked his panties, mingling with David’s spit, seeping through the lace detail. Diarmuid gently pushed himself from David and fell backwards onto the bed, chest heaving.

It was almost exactly like he’d imagined, David thought, standing over him. His face flushed with arousal and exertion, practically naked in the sheer, delicate robe, arms held above his head where he’d collapsed on the sheets, his legs bent and spread wide. But this Diarmuid, the real one, was completely David’s to touch and taste and adore.

Focusing on Diarmuid’s pleasure had distracted him from the ache of his own throbbing erection, but now that his lover was rosy and drowsy from his orgasm, David took himself in hand, groaning.

Diarmuid perked up. He pushed himself back onto his elbows. “I can do that. Let me?” The thought of his soft hands firmly stroking his cock made David shudder in pleasure. And yet—

He shook his head. “Can I come on you?” Diarmuid gave a pleased nod and shifted on the mattress. But as David watched him move onto his knees he noticed that the spot where Diarmuid had been laying was damp. He touched the area on the bed and found it slightly sticky. David wanted to lick it up. “ _Fuck_ , sweetheart.” His boyfriend, who he’d just sucked to a sobbing orgasm, suddenly looked very shy.

He gave a self-conscious little wiggle. “It’s mainly you—your _saliva_. But the lace is kind of, um, so thin that it—um. I can clean the sheets now, though, if it bothers you.” His face went red, not with exhilaration but embarrassment. David clambered onto the bed to kiss the shame from his expression.

“Fuck, no. Strokes my ego. That I make you come that much.”

That earned him a sweet little smile. “You always make me feel _so_ good,” he said with such sincerity that David felt as tongue-tied as they’d first met, rendered mute by this gorgeous man with eyes like dark honey and a kind, bright expression.

Flustered, David’s mind leapt back to a more manageable topic. He pinched the top of Diarmuid’s panties, rubbing the material between thumb and forefinger. “Will it be too much if I touch you again?”

“Um, maybe a bit, but in a good way.”

He slipped his fingers underneath the lace and found a wet, delicious mess. When he cupped Diarmuid between the legs he jumped, and when he rubbed his palm against the spent shaft he gasped and clamped his legs together, trapping David’s hand within his thighs. A fresh blaze of heat burned its way to David’s cock. This called for a slight change of plans.

“I— _oh_ —it’s—“

“Can you get on all fours for me?” he asked.

Diarmuid took a moment to register the request. “Yes, yeah, of course.” He crawled to the front of the bed, the robe still draped loosely around him.

“Now cross your ankles, sweetheart.”

“O-okay.”

The freckles on Diarmuid’s shoulders and upper back were too hard to resist; David paused to indulge himself, pulling the robe down a little to give each freckle a bit of attention with his tongue as Diarmuid squirmed underneath him. Then he said, “Keep your legs together like that. I’m going to fuck your thighs.”

“Oh, _God_ —“

He thrust between Diarmuid’s slick, hot thighs, the friction of the damp, rough lace and the wet heat of skin sending white hot bursts of pleasure to his long neglected cock.

David moaned. “Fucking—Christ.” He reached down to touch Diarmuid and found him already hard again. He pulled the panties down just far enough so that he could wrap a calloused hand around Diarmuid’s shaft and give it a few long, slow pumps.

“Oh, _God, David._ ” Diarmuid’s breathing turned into quick, tremulous little gasps. “Oh, oh, _oh_ —“ He fucked desperately into David’s fist. Pressed together as they were David could feel his heart beating, the spike in his pulse every time David licked at the freckles on his throat. He shifted and the space between his thighs grew even tighter and David groaned again. It wasn’t enough—he wanted—

Diarmuid cried out in shock as David flipped him over on his back, the robe fluttering and pooling around his chest. “What—?” Instead of answering David straddled him, yanking the panties down farther so his entire erection was finally exposed to the air. He lowered himself on top of Diarmuid, kissing his lips, forcing his mouth open and sucking on his tongue as he pressed their cocks together and frantically thrust his hips forward.

He moaned like a dying man as Diarmuid, in between cries of pleasure, managed to kick off the panties down to his ankle and wrapped his legs around David’s waist, meeting David’s thrusts with his own. He clutched at David’s shoulders chanting, “David, David, oh, _God, David_ —“

“Fuck, Diarmuid.” He felt Diarmuid’s tighten around him, the panties dangling from one ankle, tickling his side. David paused just long enough to slip them off and wrap them and his fist around both their shafts and thrust vigorously into the lace. Diarmuid’s back arched, spilling into David’s hand, the panties, onto his stomach. His hands left David’s back for the bed sheets, twisting them between his fingers as he shuddered through his second orgasm. David stared, awestruck, as Diarmuid writhed against him, flushed and sweaty and moaning softly, completely overwhelmed and absolutely beautiful.

His hips still moving weakly in an attempt to keep up with David’s own frantic rhythm, Diarmuid reached out—for another kiss, David thought, pleased, leaning forward to meet him—but instead he gently pulled him down and nuzzled into the crook of David’s neck, practically purring with contentment. He sighed, “Love you, I love you,” right into David’s ear, warm and soft and earnest as only Diarmuid was. The hot puff of his breath and his heavily lidded eyes and his mouth slightly open, lips red and swollen from kisses, his arms and legs tightening around David as though trying to nestle himself into his body—it was too much, it felt too good, _Diarmuid_ felt too good—

David came. He collapsed on top of Diarmuid, hips jerking in sharp, staggered thrusts as wave after wave of pleasure rolled through him. Each pulse spattered Diarmuid’s stomach and chest with hot, thick ropes of cum. David’s breath was wet and ragged, his voice rough. “Fuck, you’re amazing. You’re so fucking perfect. I love you.” He ground their hips together, smearing each other with their release. Diarmuid made a happy little noise, something between a hum and a laugh, and ran his gentle hands up and down David’s back.

They kissed, just a tender peck on the lips. “Gotta clean you up. You’re a mess.”

“Your fault,” Diarmuid murmured.

It completely was, David thought as he went to grab a towel. He very nearly swelled with pride at the sight that greeted him when returned to the bedroom, Diarmuid, dozing on the bed, exhausted and content, still wearing the sheer lace robe with nothing now underneath it, hips bruised, skin marked all over with kisses and bites and cum, all of it David’s—that only David could make him look like that, the very image of satisfied passion. He wiped down his chest, his stomach, the insides of his thighs. When Diarmuid shifted to better lean into his ministrations, David found the lace panties had fallen behind him and onto the sheets. He peeled them off, blushing now at the state of them—the material completely sodden from David’s tongue and from their collective cum. Feeling somewhat sheepish, David tossed them into the hamper.

“Don’t know if we can clean these, baby, sorry,” he mumbled.

Diarmuid stirred. “Hmm? Oh, that’s all right. If I can’t wash them then we have the other set. I bought both.” He gestured vaguely to his desk with a lazy wave of his arm. Draped on the back of the chair was the black lace corset and stockings. David’s cock attempted a valiant stir but instead he curled up beside Diarmuid, pulling him into his arms.

He admitted, “I like the robe a lot, though.”

“Very much noted.”

* * *

It was nearly the end of the semester and David had barely seen Diarmuid at all in the past few weeks with how busy he was with working at the Student Help Center, tutoring and editing and easing fears and providing comfort. So it was a very pleasant surprise when David returned home from work and found his boyfriend flitting about the kitchen, baking up a storm, muffins everywhere and with what looked like part of a school store set up on the coffee table.

David kissed his cheek in greeting, grabbed his ass, and then went to grab a few muffins. Diarmuid smacked his hand away. David stared at him, shocked.

“You may have _one_ muffin,” Diarmuid said, ignoring David’s frown, “So choose wisely. These are for my students because they’re working _very_ hard and are _very_ stressed, so I’m making little gift boxes for them.”

He scurried out from behind the kitchen table to show David the set-up while David snagged a chocolate chip muffin. “A planner! For future use but to keep track of their final exam times, really. Different hours than their usual class, sometimes even in a different room! Three pens, two black, one blue—should last them through all of their tests. Stress ball—just a regular design, the ones with faces make me sad. And I’ve written each of them a thank-you card for being so great during this semester. And for our last study break I have four kinds of muffins: chocolate chip, blueberry, lemon, and carrot-apple-oat. Do you think that’s a good assortment,” he asked, anxiously, “Should I add another?”

“It’s fine,” David assured him. It was more than fine. Diarmuid went above and beyond for each and everything responsibility he had, including caring for others. Another thought occurred to him. “They let you bring food in the university library?”

“Oh, people have ordered pizza and had it sent to their table. It’s fine so long as you aren’t, like, gross about. Though I guess sometimes the smell is distracting.”

Times had changed since David was in college. Once he’d sneezed in the library and the appalled librarian had given him a look like he’d told her to go fuck herself. He mentioned all this to Diarmuid, who gave him an impish little smile and said, “Well, it was such an awfully long time ago. You need to keep up with the times, David.”

“Just need to keep up with you.”

Diarmuid hummed. “You’re _extremely_ able. And, speaking of, I’m really happy with how our, ah, sexting sessions are going. Thank you for being so open-minded about it. Do you think you’d be, um, open-minded about a different subject?”

Hidden behind that feigned air of nonchalance was a different kind of nervousness. David narrowed his eyes. “Depends.”

“I want us to go have dinner with my dad, so you can meet him properly.”

David set his chocolate chip muffin down, utterly shocked at this flagrant betrayal by the man he loved. “Met your dad already,” he said.

“Oh, David. I know it didn’t go well the first time—“

He snorted.

“But, that was months ago. And Dad knows it was just a big misunderstanding.” Diarmuid gave him a hopeful look not unlike the photos of puppies waiting to be adopted at the animal shelter. David groaned.

“Alright. When?”

“This Friday evening?”

That gave him the rest of today and Thursday to prepare. There were a lot of ways David liked to spend his Friday nights, but spending a few hours at the house of a man who had, the last time and only time they’d interacted, thought that David was some kind of criminal with nefarious sexual interest in his son, did not sound like his idea of a fun time. “Alright,” he said, obviously less than enthused.

Diarmuid’s voice was pleading. “Please, just try? I think you’ll enjoy yourself if you relax a bit. We don’t have to have a philosophical debate or anything, just a bit of talk over dinner—”

“Already said I’d do it, didn’t I?” The question came out sharper than he’d intended. Diarmuid’s mouth snapped shut. He stiffly returned to putting together his gift boxes, his face pink with either anger or embarrassment, and, to David’s horror, his lower lip trembling and his eyes shiny and wet.

David stared at his half-eaten muffin.

“I’m sorry—“

“I didn’t mean—“

They both spoke at once and then stopped and waited for the other to begin again. David broke the silence. “Shouldn’t’ve barked at you. I’m sorry. I don’t—I’ll have dinner with you and your dad. Don’t worry. Won’t—won’t stop being nervous, though.”

Diarmuid sniffled. “I’m sorry for springing this up on you so soon and pushing you about it. Thank you for agreeing to come. I know it’s awkward. But, I just think it’d be nice if the three of us could have a nice dinner together. The two men I love most in the world.” He kept sniffling and wiped at his eyes with his forearm. “And I’m sorry for crying, I’m not trying to be manipulative or anything, what you said wasn’t even that big a deal! I just always cry when I’m frustrated and I just feel really stressed too because I’ve been trying really hard to get everyone ready for their exams and I should’ve made a fifth muffin to round out the gift boxes and everyone’s going to _hate_ them!” He took a deep breath and promptly burst into tears.

“Aw, no, Diarmuid, honey.” David moved him away from the gift boxes before they were splashed with his tears. Then he pulled him into a fierce hug, one hand on the back of his neck and the other rubbing his lower back. “Hey, gorgeous. You’re all right. You’re so sweet. No one could hate you. Everyone loves you. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Diarmuid said, voice muffled by having his head buried in David’s chest.

Once Diarmuid had a good cry David helped him put together the rest of the gift boxes, bag them up, and carry them to the car. Diarmuid kissed him goodbye.

“Okay. I’ll be back a bit later than usual. This is my last day tutoring at the Student Help Center so it’s going to be all cramming for exams _and_ proofreading final papers.” David snuck in two more goodbye kisses and sent him on his way.

Three hours later he was skimming through a book about Operation Market Garden when Diarmuid texted him.

 _Snack break! :D_ A photo of a full table of college students, grinning or in the middle of devouring muffins with Diarmuid smiling behind them followed shortly after. He radiated joy. It was infectious; David couldn’t help but smile as well.

 _everyone looks happy_ , he replied. Then an idea sprang to his mind. _how long is snack break?_

 _Half an hour so everyone can stretch their legs a bit_. Okay. Okay, that worked. He sent Diarmuid the line of hearts.

_< 3 <3 <3 <3 <3_

_speaking of snacks_ , he typed, and then paused, because that wasn’t a great opening line, but then, he wasn’t really sure how one segued into this. Diarmuid was always the one to take the initiative and start the sexting session, leaving David flustered but eager to keep the conversation going. He hoped that Diarmuid would at least appreciate his efforts. He pressed send.

A few moments later Diarmuid asked, _Oh????_

 _dinner will be in the oven when u get home_ , David typed, a flush creeping up his face, _and dessert in the bedroom if u want it_

He received a quick, enthusiastic reply. _Maybe I’ll just go straight for dessert? I wonder what’s on the menu for me? ;)_

Right. What was on the proverbial menu? David glanced down at his ratty old t-shirt and sweatpants—comfortable, but not particularly appetizing. At least, it wasn’t what he wanted to serve to Diarmuid tonight.

David shook his head. The metaphor was running away from him.

His wardrobe was much smaller than Diarmuid’s and contained mainly jeans and other t-shirts in various shades of black and brown. And nothing like Diarmuid’s lingerie collection, which had been steadily growing ever since that fantastic night with his robe and matching panties. He debated just stripping down and taking a naked selfie in the mirror, but that was too easy. Diarmuid deserved effort. He flicked the hangers back in the closet and found a black, long-sleeved, collared, button down shirt.

Huh.

That would work—he didn’t think Diarmuid had ever seen him wear it. And it was nice. Business casual, maybe, if you worked in the office. Formal wear for David, who spent most of his days at construction sites. He shucked off his t-shirt and pulled on the shirt, smoothing down the collar and rolling up his sleeves to his forearms. He buttoned it all the way up, frowned at himself in the mirror, and then unbuttoned it completely. Yeah, that’d do fine.

The next thing to go was the sweatpants. He kicked them off to the side, intending to pull on a pair of jeans, but once again stopped and evaluated himself in the mirror. Maybe this was better, just the shirt. Like Diarmuid’s sheer, pretty robe that might as well have been nothing for all that it covered him. Maybe he’d like that, David pinning him down, hard and naked except for the shirt as though he couldn’t even finish undressing completely before pouncing on Diarmuid and pounding away at him.

David’s reflection in the mirror stared back at him, pupils blown with arousal and one hand already stroking at a completely erect cock.

This was—this would work. He clambered onto the bed, back against the headboard. He shifted, a little, tried to get into a comfortable pose, and quickly took a set of photos. He browsed through them, deleting the blurrier ones, but the last one—it was actually pretty decent. David, resting against the headboard wearing nothing but an open shirt, his legs spread, one knee bent and the other laying flat on the bed. A hand holding tightly onto his shaft, red and hard and wanting, his thumb smearing precum across its head. He wished he could’ve thought of a less awkward way to look at his phone, and he wasn’t—his face was flushed, his brows furrowed together, his mouth a little slack. Was that how Diarmuid saw him when they were together? He couldn’t honestly say he saw the appeal.

But, no, Diarmuid liked— _loved_ it. Loved _him._ David knew how to please him. And he would be doing that now, by just sending this photo and some raunchy text along with it. He scrolled through his phone and found Diarmuid’s name and number, idly stroking himself with his other hand, imagining his boyfriend’s blushing face when he received the photo. In the space of a few heartbeats the image in his head quickly became one of Diarmuid laying completely naked on one of the university’s mahogany tables, chest heaving, frantically stroking himself to completion and calling out desperately for David—

_Brzzzt! Brzzzt!_

David dropped the phone. It clattered to the floor and continued vibrating.

“Jesus Christ.”

He reached over to pick it up, covering his naked lower body with the blankets as he did. Hell, it was his boss. Now how did he—right—David rapidly pressed the button at the corner of his screen, out of the photo gallery and back to the home screen. Then he answered the call.

“David.”

“Hey, man, sorry to call you so late.”

“It’s fine,” David said, gritting his teeth.

“Catch you exercising? You sound out of breath.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I was—Yeah.”

“Sorry, I’ll make this quick and let you get back to it. Got confused by Charlie’s handwriting—you taking Terry’s shift next Thursday?”

He threw his head back, eyes squeezed shut, frantically searching the recesses of his mind. “Uh, yeah. Yep. I am. Wanna get home earlier.”

“Oh-ho, bet I know why. Still in that honeymoon phase, huh? Well, enjoy it while it lasts, it’s all downhill from there.”

David didn’t say that he was pretty sure the honeymoon phase lasted as long as you actually enjoyed your partner’s company. But he thought it. “Have a good night, sir,” he said instead.

“Yep, see you in the AM, brother.”

David hung up and waited to make sure no one was going to overhear him send his boyfriend a photo. The phone remained where it was, silent and motionless.

Okay. Where were they? Diarmuid had been waiting for him to respond this entire time and half an hour was almost up. He brought up the gallery again, selected the photo (blushing all the while), and chose the option to share it. He waited for his contact list to pop up. Scrolling down to Diarmuid would take too long, with all the numbers he had—instead he began typing D-I-A-R in the search bar and, at the flash of his name across the screen, selected it and sent the photo with the accompanying text: _got so hard thinking about u. want to put ur legs over my shoulders and bend u in half. going to make u scream tonight_

He sent it.

David waited. The scare and ensuing conversation with his boss had made him go completely soft, but that was probably a good thing. He wanted to be able to fill Diarmuid up tonight. He removed the shirt and put it back on its hanger; he’d put it back on when Diarmuid returned home.

There still wasn’t a response when he checked his phone again. Not even a _;)_ or a few enthusiastic hearts. Then again, maybe the snack break was already over and Diarmuid had put his phone away. He went back to his messages and tried to scroll through their previous texts.

Huh. Where was the photo and caption? Maybe it was still sending? Or maybe he’d somehow not sent it at all. He pressed the back button, ready to exit all the way back out to the home screen, when he glanced at the conversations screen and his heart stopped.

Diarmuid hadn’t received the photo because he hadn’t sent the message to Diarmuid. Instead, what his recent conversations screen was telling him was that he’d sent Ciaran, saved into his phone as _Diarmuid’s Dad_ , a photo of himself stroking his erect dick along with a text describing exactly how he was going to ruin his son later that evening.

**_FUCK. HOLY FUCK._ **

David made a noise that was most likely his death rattle, because if he didn’t die of white-hot shame in the next five minutes he was going to throw himself out the window. There had to be a way to un-send messages. Why would they give you the ability to **_send_** messages and absolutely **_no way_** to **_un-send_** them? Diarmuid had probably shown him once before and he just had forgotten how— ** _Jesus Christ_** , why were his fingers this large—they weren’t made for devices this small—he couldn’t type—

And then it turned out it didn’t matter anyway, because Ciaran had already seen it. Underneath David’s detailed statement of intent involving his penis and Diarmuid’s body, there was one single reply with one single character:

_?_

David threw the phone.

This was so much fucking worse than incident with the laundry. At least then Ciaran had just suspected that David was some sort of salacious deviant who wanted to defile his son.

Now he knew for certain that David was some sort of salacious deviant who regularly defiled his son and had planned on doing it again tonight. After sitting in the shower and screaming a little, David had gotten dressed again in his old t-shirt and sweatpants, grabbed his phone from where it bounced off the wall, and searched for a way to make it look like your phone had been hacked. Then he searched for the costs and qualifications for a couple to immigrate to another country—as far away as possible, where there’d be no one on the same continent who’d seen his penis except for his boyfriend. Then he went back into the shower and screamed again.

An hour later, after dealing with a noise complaint, he made dinner for Diarmuid, because he had promised that. Just a quick vegetable stir-fry with a side of rice. He plated it and covered it with a paper towel and left it in the microwave.

Then he curled up on the couch with a blanket.

That was where Diarmuid found him when he finally arrived home. David heard the door unlocking, opening, and shutting, the sound of Diarmuid taking off his shoes and setting them to the side, and his soft, tentative footsteps to the couch.

“There you are. You never texted me back. I thought you were going to be waiting for me in bed. Change of plans? Um, David?”

David let out a miserable moan. He turned to Diarmuid, whose head was tilted quizzically, staring at him in confusion. He choked out, “Something—happened.”

“Um, okay. What happened?”

“When I—I wanted—Tried to. Do something sexy. Take a photo for you. And it didn’t. It went wrong.”

Diarmuid frowned. Then a look of horror crossed his face. Wide brown eyes flitted down to where David’s crotch was underneath the blanket. “Oh, no, David. Okay, um, this is—do we have to get you to a hospital? Are you bleeding or is it—is it _bent_?”

“What?” David sat up. “Diarmuid. That’s not. No.”

Relief flooded his boyfriend’s face. “Oh, thank goodness. I thought you hurt yourself.”

“ _No_.”

The quizzical look came back. “Then what is it?”

Instead of explaining, step-by-step and as calmly as possible what exactly had occurred, David instead stated, “We can’t go to your dad’s on Friday.”

Diarmuid’s face went pink. He looked like a furious cherub. “Are you kidding me? We just talked about it this morning and it was _fine_! Why can’t we? What changed?”

“Your dad saw my dick,” David blurted out.

Silence ensued. The only sound was the clock ticking, indicating to David exactly how much time Diarmuid needed to process this information. After what seemed like an eternity, he asked, sounding both extremely flabbergasted and utterly scandalized, “ _What?_ ” and then, “ _When?”_

“When I. Sent it. To him—from my phone. The photo that I—wanted you to see. And I also, uh. Said. Some things. In a text. About you and me.”

“And he saw it?”

“He responded. A question mark. I didn’t—respond back.”

“Can I see what you sent?” David nodded and handed him the phone.

Diamuird’s eyes went wide when he looked at the photo, “Oh— _wow_. Um, well, it’s. That’s really good. You—you look really sexy, for what it’s worth.”

It was worth quite a bit, even when he was wallowing in misery. David sat up a little straighter, slightly cheered by Diarmuid’s approval.

When he got to the texts his eyebrows went into his hairline, but he seemed remarkably calm. “Okay. Well. Um. Okay. This is not an ideal situation. And I think—um, it’s pretty late, and I’m pretty tired, so I think this is a problem for tomorrow’s Diarmuid and David. So, it’d probably be best if we just ate dinner and went to bed.” He patted David’s hand.

“I made stir-fry,” David offered.

They ate quietly on the couch, Diarmuid’s head resting on David’s shoulder.

In the morning David woke up to the sound of Diarmuid talking animatedly with his father on his cell phone. He ran a hand through his hair and padded to the kitchen, watching Diarmuid walk a circular path around and around the table as he spoke. It was a loud conversation; Diarmiud was getting increasingly frustrated.

“Dad—Daddy—it wasn’t a _dominance_ thing, don’t be ridiculous. Because it was a mistake, Dad. Because he was _mortified_ and didn’t know what to say to you—I could barely get it out of him last night. No, David has _never_ hurt me and he never will, and don’t _ever_ suggest that again. Because it’s just dirty talk, and David and I have been sending each other texts like that for _months_ now.” He stopped for breath. “And—I’m sorry that you had to—learn about this part of our lives like that. I’m sorry and David is too. But it was an accident.” There was a lengthier pause and Diarmuid’s voice grew quiet. “I’ll always be your son, don’t be silly. I’m just an adult now. Um, but if you need some time, I understand if you—if you don’t w-want us coming over tomorrow, though.”

David went up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist. Diarmuid leaned into his touch. He nodded and made some affirmative noises into the phone. Then he looked up at David. “Dad wants to talk to you for a moment, if that’s okay.”

David held out his hand. Diarmuid placed the phone in his palm and stepped back and watched, leaning on the counter.

“Ciaran,” David said.

“David,” Ciaran said.

They lapsed into silence. David wondered if he was supposed to apologize or wait for Ciaran to bring the topic up first. He listened to the clock tick. It seemed as though a full minute was going by. Diarmuid made a small, distressed noise behind him, like a puppy whose paw had been stepped on.

David wondered if Ciaran could hear it through the phone because finally he cleared his throat and said, “Diarmuid still wants us all to have dinner.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t want to see me,” he said, which was a completely accurate and factual statement.

“No, sir.”

“But you’re coming anyway?” This time a question.

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

The answer was an easy one. “Because Diarmuid wants to and I love him. Sir.”

Ciaran sighed. “We have to make this dinner a success. For Diarmuid.”

David grunted in agreement. “Yes, sir, we do.”

“When you get here you and I need to have a talk.”

He’d expected as much. “Alright, then.”

“Put my son back on the line, please.”

David held out the phone for Diarmuid, who scrambled toward him and snatched it from his hand. “Um, Dad? Yes. Yes, we can bring wine—okay! Okay! I love you too! We’ll see you Friday!” When he hung up the phone he flung his arms around David’s neck, pulling him in for a grateful kiss. “Oh, thank you, David! This’ll be—this’ll be just fine, I promise!”

David wasn’t so sure, but he readily accepted all the kisses that Diarmuid gave him.

They had to buy wine and another nice shirt for David to wear, because the only really nice one he had was the one he’d been wearing in the photo with his whole dick out. And Diarmuid had gone through and changed the names of his contacts in order to prevent another sexting disaster, tutting in disapproval the entire time. First _Diarmuid’s Dad_ became _Ciaran_ , and then he went about changing out his bosses’ names.

“David, you know Lara, you’ve met her so many times… Oh, well, now Dr. Hutchins runs the Student Help Center. They go through a lot of them. Maybe we should just change this to Student Help Center, then? No, it should be Dr. Hutchins, because that’s who you’d want to talk to…”

The drive to Diarmuid’s childhood home was pleasant and relatively free of traffic. As they got closer to their destination Diarmuid happily pointed out the stores and restaurants he used to go to and who owned them back in the day and who owned them now. His old neighborhood looked like it came out of a children’s picture book, the houses bright and cheerful, the sidewalks clean, the trees healthy and green and vibrant, people walking their dogs, homeowners tending to their lush, blooming gardens, and children laughing and playing on the lawn. Calm and happy.

It looked exactly like the kind of idyllic place that would have produced Diarmuid.

They pulled into Ciaran’s driveway. Diarmuid scampered up the winding garden path to the doorway, clutching the bottle of wine like it was the Holy Grail, David following behind him, admiring the cobblestones and the flowers. The door opened before they could knock; Ciaran must’ve seen them walking up.

“Ah, there he is, there’s my son.” He ruffled Diarmuid’s hair and kissed his cheek. “And you brought the wine, there’s a good boy.”

“Hi, Dad. I hope it’s a good one—we weren’t really sure what would pair better…”

Ciaran gave a wave of his hand. “It’s alcohol, it’ll pair with anything.” He turned and spotted David.

David stuck out his hand, an eyebrow raised. Ciaran stared at it and then shook it, firm but not with the intent to break his fingers, as David half-suspected he might.

“David,” Ciaran said. He turned to Diarmuid. “Dear, can you put the wine away and get the table ready? David and I need to have a chat.”

“ _Dad.”_

“Don’t worry, he’ll be fine.”

Diarmuid frowned. David met his gaze and gave him an encouraging nod. “Okay,” he said, slowly, “But he better still be here when I’m done.” He disappeared into the house. Once he was safely out of earshot, Ciaran shut the door. He turned to David.

“All right, son, let’s get this done here and now because I’m not bringing it up again.” David squared his shoulders, ready for an onslaught. Instead, Ciaran continued, “I had been planning on giving you the whole ‘If you ever do anything to hurt my son’ spiel tonight, but, well, I think we’re a bit too intimately acquainted for that now, don’t you think?" He let out a sheepish, but genuine, chuckle.

David, who had lost years of his life from the stress of the entire ordeal, could not yet bring himself to laugh but did make a noise of agreement.

“You know you’re the first man Diarmuid’s actually brought home? I’ve usually learned about them after the fact. He was worried I’d run them off.” Ciaran paused. “This is a pretty important dinner to him. For a few different reasons.”

David said nothing.

“He really adores you, you know. He talks about you all the time. I don’t think he’s ever been happier. So, even if I—well. Even if it still takes me a while to get used to the fact that Diarmuid’s an adult now, I do realize that you’re a good man, David. Really.”

“Thank you,” David said, sincerely. “And I’m—sorry about. The photo. And the text. Just—real sorry about it.”

Ciaran took pity on him. He clapped David on the shoulder, smiling. “Well, that’s settled for sure, then. We’re both sorry about you getting naked.”

David did chuckle at that.

They found Diarmuid fluttering around the kitchen, plates in hand. He squinted at the both of them when they entered, as if expecting to see bloody faces and broken noses. “All, um, all settled?”

“All settled,” David answered. He leaned down to press a kiss against Diarmuid’s mouth and took the plates from his hands.

Diarmuid tried to take them back. “Oh, David, you’re the guest, you don’t have to set the table, just sit down.”

“Nah,” he said, “Gotta learn where everything goes.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ciaran give him an appraising look. “You heard the man, Diarmuid, let’s get ready for dinner. Put those plates over here, David.”

David did so.

When he turned around there was Diarmuid, gazing up at him like he always did, like David was something to adore, something precious. He wrapped his arms around his waist, lips parted into a sweet smile. “Thank you, David,” he said, and David knew it wasn’t for the plates, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” They dared another kiss before Ciaran cleared his throat. Diarmuid happily showed him where all the plates and cups and bowls and dishes and condiments were, and David committed as much of it to memory as possible.

There’d be many more family dinners in the future and he was determined to make himself useful at each and every one.


End file.
